Chapter 28
Dominik had fallen unconscious, and Rose had watched as Fiona and Eilidh, and even the little-seen castle healer, Nigel, were there to aid the Laird, to ensure that her husband made it through the night.
I did this. It is my presence that has put Dominik in such danger.
Rose’s finger shook as she sat next to the bed, her eyes fixed entirely on the rise and fall of Dominik’s chest. He breathed, and Nigel had said before that his recovery showed great promise. He was only “slightly” wounded according to the healer, though Rose could see nothing slight about it.
An injury was an injury to her, and worst of all, it had been done by her own villain. Without her in his life, Dominik might have been spared the hurt Lord Egerton caused. Guilt and shame washed over her in such profound waves that Rose was sure she would drown.
How could you let this happen?
Rose swept a lock of hair off Dominik’s face, keeping her touch so light it was practically ghostly. Her chest ached as if she’d sobbed all evening, when in fact she could not bring herself to cry. She did not deserve it. It was Dominik who truly suffered.
“He will be just fine, me Lady. Daenae fret.”
Fiona’s voice rumbled through Rose’s head.
She could see the look of sympathy and care on the woman’s face, her spirits incensed to lift at the kind words of someone whom she now considered a friend.
But it was no use. There was nothing that would make Rose feel better except the waking of her husband, and perhaps not even that.
Even Eilidh praising Rose for her help in the hastily put-together infirmary did not provide the lady with enough goodness to feel anything but hopeless and remorseful. Rose’s presence was the culprit and she did not know how to remedy that malady.
You put him in danger, Rose. You do. He is a man who was only doing his duty, and his connection to you has jeopardized not only his own life but that of each life in this keep.
Sagging in her seat, Rose dropped her head to her hands, perching her elbows on her knees. What could she possibly do to make the situation right? Ambrose was dead, yes, but so much destruction had consumed the castle. How would they rebuild?
“Have ye been here all night, lass?”
Rose’s eyes shot up, landing on Dominik’s face as he sat up in the small bed, gazing across at her with those dark eyes.
She clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes burning, and nearly went to embrace him before she stopped herself.
What if Lord Egerton’s men were not truly gone?
What if he had a benefactor who was even worse?
She could not risk Dominik’s health like that. For she had realized she loved him before, now she knew just how much.
“You are all right. I am so relieved.” Rose kept her tone polite but not overly exaggerated, pulling her spine straight as she stood up from the chair she’d brought to Dominik’s bedside.
“Aye. Of course, I am all right. Egerton was a trifle. Nay match for the battle prowess of a Scotsman.”
Hearing the bravado in Dominik’s voice further sent relief skittering down Rose’s body. Still, she could also tell that he was forcing it a bit, the discomfort evident on his face when he moved too much.
He is safe. He is well. You cannot let that happen to him again. You cannot be a distraction or a lure for trouble.
“Of course.” Rose nodded once more, falling back in the familiar space of the proper English lady, her spine a rigid ramrod, her countenance smooth and gentle if closed off, distant. “The clan will be so pleased to hear that their Laird remains strong and well. Many were worried over you.”
Dominik cocked a brow at her, almost as if he could tell that something had changed in her mind. Bobbing his head, her husband nodded in a slow cadence, eyeing her with his brows down over his stare.
“Aye, aye. I suspect they were. But the Viscount was not prepared for an actual battle. He wished to slink about in the night, set fires, and poison animals. He was a greedy, contemptuous braggart. I should like to see how yer Crown will deal with his estate when they learn of his attempted murder of a Scottish Laird.”
Cautiously ducking her chin, Rose did not look at Dominik as she stepped away from the bed a few feet, trying to level her breathing.
The man was the same as ever—charming and brave and cocky—and she did not know if she could bring herself to follow through with her recently developed plan if she remained so near him, so affected by him.
Rustling sounded behind her, and Rose turned over her shoulder to see Dominik pushing himself out of the bed. She waved her hands, trying to usher him back down, but he was already up and out, standing over her.
Dominik stepped toward her, reaching for her hand. She was too slow to stop him, distracted as she always was by how it felt to be around the man. But she found herself enough to hold herself back from him, allowing Dominik only the gentle touch of her fingers, chaste and carefully measured.
“Are ye well, lass?” Her husband stared at her, so obviously worried. “Ye seem to be nae like yerself.”
Rose ducked her chin once more, taking her hand and dipping slightly into what they both knew was a curtsey, a curtsey that was in no way needed between them.
She was falling back on old habits, bringing forth that cautious, proper version of herself that had been steadily disappearing since her arrival.
“It has been quite the eventful evening, my laird. I am admittedly drained. I wished to ensure that you were well before taking my leave to rest. Seeing as that is clear now, if you would excuse me, I will lie down.”
Dominik held his eyes on her, but after a moment, he nodded. When he leaned forward, presumably to kiss her, Rose turned her face so that his lips would find her cheek, hurried stepping backward to avoid prolonged contact.
Because she couldn’t. Rose could not allow herself to lose herself around him again. His life—the lives of all those in the keep—depended on it.
Rose fled the room as if this one now was the one on fire.
Dominik could not move as he watched her exit, hurrying out of his chambers and firmly shutting the door behind her.
In truth, he could not run after her if he wanted to, which he did very much.
But his injury hurt him, making each breath an arduous task.
Standing up had been his way of silently inquiring about his wife’s feelings.
Had she been simply scared of his injury or overwhelmed, he imagined that she would rush up to his side much more readily.
Out of the energy that powered him, Dominik nearly collapsed back down to his bed, his eyes still trained on the door.
“She was so…cold.”
The Laird was not sure what had happened between his falling unconscious and his waking, but the woman who greeted him just now was not the woman he remembered, not from earlier in the evening, at least.
But perhaps from when she first arrived when he first met her.
She regarded herself with the same level of measured appearance as she had on that first day. Rose kept herself physically distant from Dominik, and she would hardly look him in the eye. What had happened?
Had he said something during his sleep? Or worse, was Rose seeing the truth of Egerton’s greed and now wary of every man she met?
Dominik grumbled to himself, letting his head fall back against the pillow-covered headboard.
This was not how he wished to wake up. His dreams had been so fraught with memories of the battle and the fear he felt at the notion of Rose being harmed that Dominik had genuinely thought waking would be so much better, despite any pain from his injury.
He was not so sure now.
This all felt too achingly familiar. The indifferent, callous attitude of his late mother, the way she had been so terribly against all things Scottish culture. Had Rose seen one too many sword swings to feel comfortable? Did she suddenly regret her choice to marry him?
He would not force her to stay if that were the case. But even considering that, it filled Dominik with such vehement doubt, followed by nauseating terror that threatened to drag him down into the depths.
His mother married his father for political reasons, and while that was obviously not quite the case between Dominik and Rose, he feared the worst. Had she done this only to protect herself, was her display of trust and enjoyment with him all an act?
The furious beat of Dominik’s heart nearly choked him, and he could not deny the burn in his eyes and throat for the thick emotion he fought to keep restrained.
Ye will get a hold of yerself, Dominik. So, Rose doesnae love ye, that may have been the case from the start. That is the way of things in political or arranged marriages. It does not matter.
Dominik wasn’t sure who his words were for. He was thinking about them in his head. Clearly, no one else would be able to hear them, but why did he feel the need to remind himself that this marriage had not been one of love?
And why did it crush him so to think about it?
His chest felt heavy and painful, each breath a taxing act that drained him of his strength. It had to be the injury. It had to be the fact that he’d been wounded, was still recovering, and had forced himself to stand just a moment ago.
Because it could not be the fact that he was heartbroken. It could not be the fact that he’d grown to care for Rose, that he had…fallen in love with her so completely he could hardly fathom the depths of his admiration and connection to that Englishwoman.
It couldn’t.
Sighing, Dominik closed his eyes against the dim light of the room, kept both warm and lit by the presence of a low-burning fire in the hearth.
It was unclear how long he had been asleep after his injury.
It was unclear what time of day it was or what he ought to be doing in it.
He did not care. Dominik couldn’t care. He only felt tired, an exhaustion so potent that his eyes shut, and he knew he would not be opening them again for some several hours.
Me Rose. What has happened between us? Was I a fool? A silly Scottish fool, bespelled by the sorcery of a fine English lady in search of a quick fix to her problems.
Dominik was a good judge of character. He always had been. Still, now he felt as if he couldn’t even trust his own eyes. And so, it was likely quite good that he would not be opening them any time soon.
So, he let himself sleep, drifting into the black of unconsciousness where it didn’t hurt so much, for as long as the world would allow him.